


Forever and a Day

by L3245



Series: Forever [4]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dead Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Good Chloé Bourgeois, Guardian Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Hurt/Comfort, Ladynoir | Adrien Agreste as Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng as Ladybug, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change, Romance, Slow Burn, Soap Opera, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L3245/pseuds/L3245
Summary: After the fall of Ladybug and Hawkmoth, after eight years of being the Guardian, after struggling for so long as the lone half of a balanced pair, Adrien Agreste agrees to relinquish the Ladybug miraculous. Together, he, the new Ladybug, and Team Miraculous will work to defeat the new supervillain Paonne once and for all.That is, if they aren't destroyed entirely themselves first.The past has a way of catching up.(Part 4 of a series, but can be read alone.)
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Luka Couffaine/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Series: Forever [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684930
Comments: 48
Kudos: 67





	1. I'll forget you

On a late summer night, a lone black figure lands at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

With a graceful leap, he touches down in a silent, crouched position, holding a quickly-retracting silver baton. The air around him screams _danger._ Every muscle is tense. His jade green eyes are narrowed as they survey the platform. The black ears nestled in untamed golden locks are alert, twitching at any bit of sound.

It’s only when he makes sure that he’s completely, utterly alone that Noir relaxes. He then makes sure he’s nestled in a blind spot before he leans against a beam and sinks all the way down. Looking down at his hands—covered in a sleek black, instead of the reds, browns, greys, and blacks of every amok attack these past years—he thinks that he doesn’t want to do this as Noir.

“Claws In,” he murmurs.

In a flash of green light, the visage of Paris’s most prominent—and most hated, most _feared_ —superhero fades away to something more fragile. Adrien Agreste tilts his head and smiles half-heartedly at the black kwami floating beside him with a million unspoken questions. The blond shrugs. Right now, he’s just a young man, lost and alone.

But he’s _trying_ now.

It’s been a long time coming, but eight years seems to be enough, or near it. Adrien lets the years echo in his mind.

“ _Forever is a long time,” Ladybug laughs at him, always teasing and guarded and forever out of reach._

_The ringing and buzzing of his phone from missed calls that slowly died off completely._

_“Creepy and messed up, just like his father,” the policemen mutter when they think he can’t hear._

_The whispers behind his back, saying it should have been him instead of Ladybug that died that night._

_“I know, kid. That’s okay. It’s okay,” Plagg murmurs helplessly every time he shattered._

_The screams, shouts, and cries of the amok-Ladybug he tore to pieces._

_“You need to let Marinette go,” Chloé says quietly, voice drenched in concern._

Adrien takes a deep breath, Chloé’s last words to him resounding louder than the rest. He needs to do this now before he loses his nerves. With shaking hands, he retrieves a small paper-wrapped package from his pocket. He carefully unwraps it to reveal plain grey earrings that quickly morph into a deep crimson in his palm.

Plagg’s eyes widen as he realizes what’s happening.

In a burst of rose-pink light, the kwami of creation materializes before him. The young man offers her a shameful smile, remembering the last time he’d seen her.

“Hey Tikki,” Adrien said softly. “I’m sorry for everything.”

The red kwami smiles at him, and while it’s sad, there’s no pity, no anger. She doesn’t resent him for his failure to be Ladybug. She doesn’t even hold a grudge that Adrien’s kept her earrings so selfishly all these years, not wanting to _let go._ Instead, she simply flies up to his right cheek, hugs him, comforts him, and, when he starts to shake slightly, wipes away the tears.

“Do what you need to do,” Tikki murmurs gently.

“Kid—are you sure?” Plagg asks worriedly.

Adrien nods. “Yeah… just give me a moment. I need to say some things to her before I ago.”

Because he needs to do this.

He can’t afford to be selfish anymore. He needs to move on.

Thumb caressing the simple earrings—a dark, dark red, like dried blood—he takes a deep breath and tries to find the words to say. Words were never his strong suit, but they come forth with only a little effort. He only needs to imagine her sitting there, smiling at him patiently like he is the only one in her eyes.

Adrien closes his. “Hey Bugaboo,” he says softly.

A tiny smile graces his lips as the Ladybug of his imagination rolls her eyes. She’s beautiful up here. He takes a moment to just enjoy how the wind ruffles her hair, how she looks at him with a gentleness the real Ladybug probably never felt.

“Tonight I will announce the search for a new Ladybug.”

He imagines Ladybug regarding him with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. In his mind’s eye, she huffs and rolls her eyes, sighing out a, _“Took you long enough, you stubborn kitty.”_ Adrien chuckles, but he also envisions the quiet guardedness in this daydream Ladybug. She had always tried to hide it, but he _was_ her partner. He always saw the burden weighing her down, even if he didn’t always know what it was.

It was the same here.

“It was hard for you, wasn’t it?” he murmurs, throat constricting. “Putting up with me all those years… and when I didn’t let you go after. Because I held onto you. Because I wouldn’t let anyone replace you.”

The Ladybug he envisions smiles at him gently. It’s been a while. He’s forgotten exactly how she sounded, so he just imagines her as silent, yet encouraging. The next words are hard.

“You can rest now though… because I’ll send you away now. I’ll forget you.”

Adrien loved her _so_ much, but…

The others were right. He’s mourned his partner for long enough, even though everyone has moved on. Paris deserved better than him, but he was all they had, and he needed to pull himself together. If not for his sake, then for Paris, and for Team Miraculous whose members had sacrificed so much. It wouldn’t be fair for the new Ladybug to always be compared just like Adrien was.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll still be here. I’ll even go easy on the new Ladybug,” Adrien retorts teasingly at the imaginary Ladybug, but there’s a sort of bitterness in his next words. “You made me the Guardian, after all. I can’t exactly run.”

A hefty responsibility, one that Adrien never thought he’d have to bear but here he is now.

“Before that… I want to see you just once. Like the old days, you know? Just you and me against the world, milady. That can’t happen though, right? But still, once… just once…” His voice trails off at the end.

Just one more time as Ladybug and Chat Noir, and Adrien could happily spend forever without.

He opens his eyes and he’s alone at the top of the Eiffel Tower. His lips curve ruefully at first, then in amused resignation. He didn’t know what he expected. With a sigh, Adrien pockets the Ladybug earrings and sends a message to all of Team Miraculous summoning them to his location.

“Goodbye, Ladybug.”


	2. useless to imagine such things

Team Miraculous assembles slowly, but surely.

Ryuko arrives with a strong breeze. She gives Noir a nod before standing in an opposing, but equally empty corner.

King Monkey lands rather loudly, his staff clattering against the railing. Immediately after he lands, twin portals materialize on either side of the monkey hero. Pegasus and Bunnix step out of their respective gateways, sharing a knowing look as King Monkey whines about them ‘holding back’ in their race to get her.

Pigsy’s pink ribbon wraps around the Eiffel Tower’s radio antennae then goes taut. After a few seconds, the grinning blonde hero emerges with Tigress wrapped around her back.

Carapace and Rena Rouge arrive together through the elevator. The former salutes him, or at least tries to, because he ends up yawning rather widely. Rena shrugs apologetically and coaxes him to lean against her as they wait.

Pegasus’s glasses beep insistently. He taps the side of the frames once, then seemingly looks off into the distance as he reads the messages. After a moment, he creates Voyage portals for the remaining Souris, Black Bull, Alectryon, Chévre Blanche, and Viperion.

They’re still waiting for Queen Bee to arrive. In the meantime, Noir crosses his arms and silently observes the members of Team Miraculous.

On the night he became the Guardian, Tikki had given Adrien three things: The Miraculous Box, a piece of notebook paper with his school name and class number on it, and a post-it note with two short, terrible words.

It had taken him a while to figure out which Miraculous belonged to which holder. He and Plagg suspected there was a different kind of magic, some type of glamour, that masked the true identities of Miraculous holders, even from Guardians. Knowing the class roster had helped tremendously in getting past that glamour though, and Adrien had distributed the Miraculouses amongst his former classmates without a second thought.

There hadn’t yet been a situation that called for the full strength of Team Miraculous, but Adrien had reasoned to himself that it was better if he didn’t have to personally distribute a Miraculous every time he needed its power.

After all, no one here is aware his true identity.

That didn’t stop them from finding out each other’s. Whether it was on accident or on purpose, Adrien didn’t much care for the reason. He understood the desire to know another inside out, felt the guilt of keeping secrets from his loved ones. Ladybug had always considered knowing identities a weakness, but he had always thought the real weakness was not being able to completely protect the one you cared about.

The bonds within Team Miraculous were different as a result.

The easy friendship of Max, Alix, and Kim bled over into their superhero personas. He suppresses the tiny smile when they start bickering over the logistics of a race across Paris.

Nino and Alya are still going strong. Their loving relationship with each other was both a comfort and a knife. Adrien spares them only a few seconds of scrutiny, careful not to attract much attention from his former best friend.

Rose, Juleka, Ivan, and Luka chat casually. Or, rather, Rose chatters animatedly about her newest philanthropic venture while Juleka, Ivan, and Luka nod along encouragingly.

Nathaniel and Marc whisper to themselves to the side. Adrien’s eyes narrow slightly when they notice him, bodies stiffening and voices lowering.

Kagami… is looking at him, never one for socializing in a crowd. He avoids her calculating gaze.

Sometimes, Adrien wonders what this group would look like if Ladybug were still here. Perhaps things would be different. Would he stand with Max, Alix, and Kim, horsing around and making silly puns every five seconds? Would he hang near Nino and his girlfriend, bemoaning about his own bad luck in dating? Would he be with his former Kitty Section members, chattering alongside Rose? Or would he quietly discuss with Nathaniel and Marc about art and poetry? Perhaps he’d just speak with Kagami, preferring a calmer presence.

…

It was useless to imagine such things.

Fifteen minutes past the scheduled meeting time, Queen Bee shows up in a flurry of gold and black.

“You took your time,” Viperion says disapprovingly.

Queen Bee shoots him an icy glare. “Can it, snake. I’ve had a long day,” she grumbles. The bee heroine practically stalks to the empty spot beside Chat Noir, fixing her already-immaculate hair along the way.

“Dude, same here,” Carapace tells her in between yawns. “That last amok was such a pain, but at least _I’m_ here on time.”

“You want to say that again, hard-ass?” the blonde snaps.

“Hey--!” Now Rena is glaring at her.

Noir clears his throat before it can escalate any further. All eyes go to him and he _feels_ the distance. Amongst each other, they were friends, lovers, rivals. Though he was the leader, he was also the outsider.

“Now that everyone is here, we can start,” Adrien says. His jade eyes sweep across each hero calculatingly. He clasps his hands behind his back. With the setting sun behind his back, he sets an imposing figure—if they wanted an untouchable, dangerous leader, that’s what they’ll get. “As you all know, the anniversary of Hawkmoth’s defeat—“ _and Ladybug’s supposed death_ “is approaching.”

The air around them shifts into grim.

Despite the day marking the fall of Paris’s most powerful supervillain at the time, it was also the day Paris lost its most beloved superheroine. Everyone had loved Ladybug. Everyone mourned her loss. Every year on the anniversary, Paonne took advantage of the grief and despair to throw more and more powerful amoks, which in turn heightened the negative emotions for next year. It was a vicious cycle that was only made easier by the fact that there were almost no amoks for weeks after the day.

There is a palpable silence as Team Miraculous remembers the disasters of years past. They always came out on top, but the price was heavy each time.

“This year, we will have a Ladybug,” Noir declares. He continues quickly, not giving anyone else a chance to butt in. “Some ground rules: Ladybug candidates will be chosen by someone other than myself.” Potential Ladybugs will have the Miraculous for one amok incident only. After everyone has had a chance to recommend someone, we will take a vote.”

He swiftly turns to Alya. “Rena, because you approached me first, I assume you already have someone in mind?” Noir questions her.

Rena Rouge stares at him with her eyes wide and jaw hanging slightly open. “I-I mean, yes, there’s someone I work with that I think would do a good job,” she stammers. Noir nods in approval.

Then, in a move that shocks everyone, he pulls out the small paper package that’s been burning a hole in his suit pocket.

Souris gasps. “Is that really it?”

“Holy shit,” King Monkey mutters, shaking his head.

Pigsy bounces in excitement.

The black-suited hero holds it up. He stares at the fox hero with the utmost gravitas. “These are the Ladybug earrings. When the next amok attack happens, I want you to give them to her. When the fight ends, you will retrieve them and give them to Carapace for his candidate.”

Nino shakes his head. “I don’t really anyone I wanna give them to,” he quickly says.

Noir nods, expecting as much. “Then,” he amends, “you will give them to Bunnix, who will then pass it to Pegasus. I’ll be sending out a list later.” The list would be based on who approached him for a replacement Ladybug.

He dimly registers Alix’s murmured bet with Kim as to who could pick the best Ladybug.

 _Ondine as Ladybug… an interesting thought,_ Adrien thinks, already knowing the half-Vietnamese boy’s choice. Thinking about having a partner after all this time is… strange, to say the least.

But he’s hopeful. From the sounds of it, the everyone else was hopeful too. The atmosphere has warmed considerably, and Adrien can feel that same happiness and warmth and expectation extend to him.

…

He extends the earrings to Rena Rouge. Before she takes it though, he pulls it just out of her reach.

“This should go without saying,” he murmurs, just loud enough for everyone to hear, and it’s _dangerous,_ “but if the earrings are lost or fall in the wrong hands, the one responsible will have to _answer to me_. I don’t care who it is, there will be repercussions. This is not a game, or another silly bet. This is serious. Understood?”

Because he’s not their friend. He’s their leader, their boss, the Guardian. He can’t afford to get too close.

They all nod, some of them shuddering at the dark promise behind his words.

Noir then relinquishes the Ladybug Miraculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I actually don't really have a plot for this story, but I'm excited. I've never done spontaneous stuff for something "serious" like this before. Let's see where it goes.


	3. better with you

Marinette wakes up surrounded by a thin blanket, the scent of sea breeze and musk, warm, sturdy arms, and not much else. At her back is a soft, gentle pressure that comes and goes—a chest, breathing steadily. Lips trail from her neck to her shoulder, pressing a kiss at the end. It’s relaxing, and she feels so warm. With a content sigh, she scoots further into the embrace.

“Good morning.” Luka smiles against her skin. “Sleep well?”

_Better with you._

But she doesn’t say the words. Instead, Marinette rolls to her other side, teasing, “We slept?” At her boyfriend’s slightly confused look though, she quickly amends her words. “Yes, I did. Thanks for helping me move in.”

A pleased smile settles on Luka’s handsome face. He leans forward and kisses her again, this time on the forehead. She loves it when he looks at her like that.

“You’re my girlfriend. Of course I would help.”

There’s an unspoken statement that the young designer wouldn’t have needed his help settling in here if she had moved in with him instead, but neither of them acknowledges it. They’re content to just bask in this easy afterglow. They spend about half an hour just cuddling when Marinette breaks the silence.

“What time do you have to be at the studio?” she yawns, wrapping a leg even tighter around his.

“…a little less than an hour,” Luka admits sheepishly. She checks the time. It’s fifteen to 11.

“Shower. Now. If you’re lucky, you can stop by your place and get different clothes.”

“ _Marinette,_ I just wanted to spend time with you _—”_

She glares, only half-meaning it.

“Tell Jagged to let up on all those nighttime rehearsals then, and _maybe._ Honestly, that he would ask for last night too? _”_ Marinette says with a little smile. She shoos him from her bed. “But until then, go wash up. I’ll make you breakfast.”

The dark-haired man chuckles good-naturedly before doing as she commanded, knowing she was right. When Luka leaves though, he takes away the simple warmth his presence provided.

The smile slowly fades from her face. Sighing, Marinette swings her legs over the mattress—noting the slight soreness in her body—and picks up the clothes that had been haphazardly strewn about the bedroom. She puts on an oversized shirt to ward off the chill before stepping out, leaving Luka’s clothes right outside the bathroom door in the hallway.

The apartment itself isn’t all that large. It is a single bedroom, single bathroom unit. The main room is an open-floor design, with a kitchen opening out to a small dining area and living room. She leans against the bar counter as her blue eyes survey the room, from the cardboard boxes stacked up along the wall— _thank god Luka helped unpacked most of them_ —to the remnants of last night’s dinner— _some wine and pizza from Luka’s old high school workplace—_ to the comfy couch that was covered in more fabric and designing tools than throw pillows— _the only reason they’d moved to the bedroom._

Marinette thinks that her new apartment isn’t a home, not yet, but it’s nice and has the potential. At the very least, her living by herself gave her some privacy while the size of the place gave her just enough room to not feel too alone.

She flips on the television as she gets out the ingredients for an omelet. As she whisks the eggy mixture in a bowl, Marinette finds herself humming a simple tune.

It’s a calming one, and she thinks it might be happy, but she can’t recall the words.

The navy-haired woman doesn’t have much time to dwell on it though when the news change from a weather report to local celebrity gossip. The news ticker blares a headline that makes her tense.

‘ADRIEN AGRESTE ARRESTED FOR FIGHTING’

A grainy video is displayed on the screen. It’s a little hard to make out the people in the video, but one mop of unmistakable golden hair stands out. Marinette watches as a taller, burlier-looking man says something indecipherable past the pounding club music, then as Adrien Agreste lunges at him fists flying.

“According to law enforcement, Adrien Agreste was arrested at 3 AM today for allegedly punching a man at a Paris nightclub.”

Marinette watches the screen intently, even as she pours the eggs into the pan.

“Our sources say Agreste was at L’Arc Paris when he got into some sort of argument with a male patron and it became physical. The cops came and arrested the fashion CEO for the assault. _Allegedly,_ the argument had been about Paris’s gone, but not forgotten Ladybug. Agreste Fashion has declined to comment.”

The news caster tuts with faux sympathy, turning to her colleague in the news station.

“Such a shame, that Adrien. Remember when he was Paris’s Golden Boy? Oh how far he has fallen.”

The first caster nods in an equally ‘genuine’ manner and Marinette _hates_ them.

“I remember my niece _begging_ me to buy his fragrance back in the day. Though, considering Hawkmoth was his father, you can’t blame him for losing it over Ladybug.”

“ _Well…”_

A fierce protectiveness swells in her chest, clawing, baring teeth. Marinette utterly despises these people who smile and coo while their words tear at an already beaten man. She doesn’t know why she feels like this for Adrien Agreste, a practical _stranger_ to her, she just does.

“Hey.” Luka finally emerges from his shower. His hair is still slightly damp, but a small towel rests atop the soaked locks. He reads the headlines thoughtfully. “You all right?”

“Hm?” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I am.” She shrugs noncommittedly until the smell of faintly-burning food hits. “A-aagh!” And then she’s scrambling to save the omelet as Luka studies her with continued concern.

“Oh no…” Marinette pouts at the blackened half of the eggs. They’re a sad sight on the plate.

To her surprise though, the teal-haired musician just takes a fork and takes a bite. Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush as he makes a show of chewing and swallowing. Before she can protest him eating anymore— _seriously, this guy, I just—_ Luka sets aside the food and pulls Marinette into a loose hug.

“I know Adrien was your friend in lycée,” he murmurs into her hair, “but it’s been years. I know how you are with wanting to help everyone, but don’t blame yourself for how he is now. It’s not your fault, okay?”

_Right. He was… my… friend._

Which is true. As far as she knew, at least. Still, there is something there— _or not there—_ that tells her differently. Adrien was her friend, but if he was, why haven’t they spoken? Surely, he would have reached out to her, to _anyone_ after Hawkmoth’s defeat? Maybe even now when he’s clearly so alone and lost?

Marinette wishes she remembered more. So much of her life is a blank.

But… Luka is right. It isn't her fault.

“Okay,” Marinette echoes, hugging him tightly, basking in the scent of water and salt and her shampoo, and his warmth and kindness. It is with great reluctance that she pulls away from the hug to make a quick to-go sandwich—after scraping off the charred bits, of course.

“Thank you for breakfast. Love you,” Luka says with a soft grin that reminds her of why she fell in love with her boyfriend, her first and only love.

She smiles, turns around, kisses him. “Love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I should probably have made all of these three chapters into one, but I lose steam quickly/overthink if I sit on stuff for too long and this project is more of a seat-of-the-pants thing. Or something. Ohhhh well... 
> 
> fun stuff next chapter yes yes


	4. thanks for the breakfast

When the Gorilla retrieves him from the police station and escorts him to the car, Adrien wasn’t expecting to see his manager slash assistant reclining in the backseat. Chloé spares him a disdainful look over her white-rimmed shades. Standing in front of her in last night’s clothes and smelling like he’s bathed in vodka, Adrien tenses, immediately feeling defensive.

Just because she’s seen him at his worst doesn’t mean he likes showing weakness.

“Get in before anyone can see you. You look like shit,” Chloé snaps, making the headache he has even worse.

Still, without another word, the model slides into the back right seat. The scent of fresh coffee, bitter and stimulating, hits him. Chloé then tosses him a paper bag containing a croissant and two aspirin pills. A little more digging in the bag reveals a small slice of white cheddar. He takes a bite of the pastry and drinks some of the coffee with the aspirin, feeling a little bit better. He still feels like crap, but Adrien can already feel the worst of the hangover subsiding.

The Gorilla climbs into the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb.

“Chloé—" Adrien tries to speak, but she cuts him off.

“Getting arrested for drunk fighting? That’s the third time this year, Adrien.” She sounds _pissed._

“I know, but—”

“When I said to _let go_ , I didn’t mean for you to toss the earrings at the first person that asked—Césaire, are you serious? Do you realize what could happen?” Chloé rails at him. “And then you ‘let go’ in public again. What a PR nightmare. Ridiculous.”

Adrien massages his temples.

“Alya won’t give it to her,” he replies confidently. “I know the girl she was talking about. Mireille Caquet, the weatherwoman from TVi News.”

His answer seems to mollify Chloé somewhat. Some of the frustration bleeds out of his assistant.

“Oh. She’s kind of a pushover, but I can see it. Well, what about the others?”

“Max will either give the earrings to Markov or someone from his workplace. Alix will choose her brother. Kim will give them to Ondine. Kagami will pass. Mylène and Ivan will pass. Marc will choose Aurore Beauréal,” Adrien lists, eventually trailing off. Jade green eyes flash to Chloé’s icy blue in a challenge. “Should I continue?”

She crosses her arms. “And Couffaine?” They both know she’s not talking about Juleka.

Adrien closes his eyes. “A nonissue. He will pass.”

He may not be involved in his subordinates’ lives, but Adrien knew to recognize care and protectiveness when he saw it. Even if he _did_ consider her, Luka would never put Marinette at risk knowing what he knew about the dangers of the fights. Adrien was sure of it.

That same look is mirrored in Chloé’s eyes and Adrien sees an opening.

He then opens his suit jacket, letting out Plagg. The kwami flies out with an exaggerated yawn that clearly gave away that he was listening in but didn’t want to get involved. Adrien hands him the white cheddar and Plagg perks up, flying off with it to the front seat. “Yo, big guy,” he greets the Gorilla. The Gorilla barely blinks at the two floating creatures. After all these years, he’s already used to the sight.

Following Plagg’s example, Chloé’s kwami, Pollen also comes out of hiding. “My Queen?” she ventures, formal as ever. Chloé nods and the bee kwami bows deeply before joining Plagg.

In a gentle, nonchalant tone, “I know what I’m doing with the Miraculous, Chloé. And as for last night, I just needed to not think for a bit and got carried away. Some asshole said a few things I don’t remember, I had too much to drink, it’s not a big deal. It won’t happen again.”

“ _Right.”_

“It won’t affect my duties. I’ll be fine. So—” He raises an eyebrow at her, a blink-and-you-miss-it glimmer of mischief in his eye that has the desired effect of throwing Chloé off-kilter. “—thanks for the breakfast, but you can stop worrying about me now. People might start to spread _rumors_ about us, you know?”

“ _What?_ Me? _Worried?_ ” Chloé shrieks, but a light pink color dusts her cheeks. “Hmph! You’re ridiculous.”

He leans back in his seat. _“Right, right,”_ the blond parrots back at her.

“Ridiculous! I-I’m just taking you to the photoshoot you’ve been avoiding for the past few days!” Adrien lets the color drain from his face, allows a childish whine to slip past his lips as she continues, “You’re lucky you’re still pretty after last night. Or maybe _unlucky,_ because even Andre wants to roast you under the lights for avoiding him!”

“But it’s Saturday! Chloeeeeeeee—” He even paws at her designer purse like a bratty cat for added effect. A shit-eating smirk plays at his lips.

She takes it and smacks him—on the arm and not hard enough to bruise, but it surprisingly hurts. “No! You’ve been postponing this photoshoot for way too long! Just because you’re the CEO of your own company doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want! My reputation is on the line here!” Chloé produces her phone and starts vindictively scrolling through his entire schedule planned for today. “You have Andre in an hour, then a meeting with the board, then lunch with your new top designer—great job having the last one quit by the way—and then…”

And Adrien watches her with fond, but hooded eyes. Slowly, the smile drops from his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok I lied, amok is next scene.


	5. soft bells ring in her mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages are weird. I’m retconning some of the years passage and ages, but 25 for most of the gang should be good.

_Scritch._

One line, smooth and slanted diagonally, light grey over soft white.

_Scratch._

Another to join it, slightly darker, overlapping the first.

Marinette’s hand glides across the sketchbook, adding tiny details here and there to the rough sketch of a man’s suit as she waits for her order. The twenty-five-year-old hadn’t felt like cooking breakfast in her apartment— _it’s too cold there, alone—_ so despite the incoming rain, she had thrown on a pair of black skinny jeans and a moss-green button-down blouse and made her way to Café de Porte-Bonheur. She leans her chin into one hand and raises the other, graphite-smudged hand to push a few wayward strands of hair out of her face. She’d worn her hair down today, and it came down to her middle back.

So far, she’s spent five minutes sketching and none of that time actually paying attention.

Marinette couldn’t stop thinking about Adrien Agreste.

The blond model was an enigma. Despite having attended classes with him for a little over three years, Marinette only knew as much about him as the rest of Paris. She knew he was Paris’s former golden boy, his face plastered over countless billboards, his image marketed in magazines and advertisements, his voice featured in animated films. She knew he was the son of Gabriel Agreste, more commonly known as Hawkmoth. She knew he was the poster child of a ‘poor rich kid’, his increasingly public scandals evidence of that.

_So why has he flooded her mind?_

Manon Chamack, one of the waitresses for this Ladybug-inspired café, arrives with her chocolate croissant. “Here you are!” The sixteen-year-old gives Marinette a dimpled, toothy grin, still reminding her of the imperious toddler she babysat.

Marinette returns it with a vacant smile and returns to her drawing.

Every time Adrien appears on the news, Marinette’s thoughts circle back to a faded, plastic rose hidden in her desk drawer—a romantic gift, apparently, and though her parents never told her it was from Adrien, Marinette just _knew_ it was.

She’s not some teenager with a crush anymore.

She’s not in love with him.

When Marinette sees his face—whether it’s the perfect, practiced version on magazine spreads or the cracked, scowling visage on drama television—she doesn’t feel the emotions normally associated with… love, or a crush. She’s not giddy, she doesn’t feel that lightness in her body, none of that. Instead, she feels an odd mixture of protectiveness, fear, sorrow, and most of all, a crushing _guilt._

_…maybe Luka was right. Maybe I get too invested._

Her pencil accidentally touches paper. A stray line mars the sketch, and Marinette curses own clumsiness under her breath as she moves to erase it. However, there’s a jolt and the eraser _drags_ across the empty space at the top. It hits her. She’s not shaking—the ground is.

_Thump! Thump!_

A loud rumbling and some metallic screeching come from the down the street. Marinette winces. From inside the café, she couldn’t make out the amok or the source of the sounds, but this case sounded like a particularly dangerous amok and a car crash. The young woman picks up her buzzing phone, just now realizing the amok watch notifications that covered her screen.

**[09:00 am] AMOK WATCH: CATEGORY A4. Last seen near RUE DE TOURENNE, heading east.**

Similar to tornadoes and hurricanes, the akumas had eventually received their own warning system, with A0 akumas considered light threats while A5 akumas treated as incredible. When the amoks replaced the akumas, the system had simply been reused. In this case, a category A4 amok is a devastating threat, and the area it’s in has to be avoided as best as possible, both because of the damage the amok could cause and the ensuing fight with Team Miraculous.

The Rue de Tourenne was right up against the Place des Vosges, a nearby park. Judging by the time of the alert, she’d have to leave. Now.

“Shit,” she mutters, quickly gathering her things and joining the pedestrians outside running in the opposite direction of the approaching amok, using her book bag as a shield from the rain.

It’s a bit difficult from the jostling of bodies around her, but Marinette dials Luka’s number on her phone, knowing he was in the general area and just _praying_ he was all right. The musician had a tendency to be so absorbed in his music when he was with the band sometimes that he couldn’t focus on anything else.

“Come on, come on, pick up Luka…”

_“Hey—”_

She lets out a sigh of relief. “Luka! Are you all right? There’s an a—"

_“—this is Luka Couffaine. I can’t reach the phone right now. Please leave a message.”_

Voice mail. Figures.

 _Crash!_ Another loud rumble that shook the ground. For a brief second, the streets were also lit up a garish white.

 _“Lightning?”_ she says incredulously. Seriously? While it was raining?! “Luka, call me back when you get the chance! I’m near Café de Porte-Bonheur, but I’m all right! Call me!”

Marinette bites her lip with worry and shoves her phone in her pocket. She’d just have to trust that her boyfriend would be fine, and not doing anything stupid like ignoring his phone for too long or running off in the _direction_ of danger to help others make it out. No one’s died from an amok attack, but Marinette’s seen the ones that get sent to the hospital.

She shudders.

The light rain gets heavier as she runs, turning into an outright downpour in less than five minutes. If she thought it was hard running before, it’s hard _now,_ her feet sloshing in deep puddles and her clothes weighing her down. Still, she runs and runs, until suddenly—

Someone bumps into her roughly, almost causing her to fall face-first into the street. However, that’s not what makes her stop completely and turn around so fast to almost give herself whiplash. It’s that this _kid_ is running towards the amok.

“Mama!” the dark-skinned child shouts. He looked no more than eleven.

Marinette halts. “Wh—what? Hey! Where are you going?” she yells after him, but the boy keeps running.

_I…_

She can see the amok now. It’s a massive thing, shadowy and grey and vaguely humanoid with two arms, two legs, and a head. It kind of resembles a cloud, save for the fact that its eyes glow red near the top. As she gapes at the amok, it materializes a giant zig-zag bolt in its hands that becomes brighter every second. The bolt is thrown in a random direction, resulting in the same crash and flash of light Marinette had seen earlier.

“GIVE ME YOUR MIRACULOUS, NOIR!” the stormy amok bellows.

For a moment, Marinette freezes, torn between running away in fear and going after the kid. It only lasts for maybe half a second though before she narrows her eyes and sprints towards the boy, newfound determination, and adrenaline coursing through her veins.

“Hey--um! Young man! Come back!” she pants. Inwardly, she cringes.

 _‘Young man’? What am I, my grandpa?_ Alya was so much better with kids.

“Mama! Mama, where are you?”

“Gotcha!”

“H-hey! Let me go! I need to find my mom!”

Marinette considers picking him up— _later she’d shake her head at herself and chuckle. Her? Pick up this kid? What?_ —but instead settles for holding his hand tightly and practically dragging him to the side, narrowly dodging the incoming lightning bolt. They are insanely lucky. The ground they were standing on has been reduced to a molten black mess. Thankfully, the bolts are telegraphed, making them relatively easy to dodge if you are paying attention. Another lucky stroke was that the lightning isn’t actual lightning, but some sort of magical imitation. At the very least, they weren’t electrocuted from the attack.

As soon as they’re ‘safe’, Marinette turns to the boy. “We’ll find your mother once the amok is taken care of. For now, you need to stay safe so _she_ can find _you_ safe after all this instead of burned to a crisp!” She tries to say it gently, yet steadily, but she must have let some of her panic show because the boy looks like he’s about to cry.

 _Oh no._ Yep. Alya was so much better at this sort of thing.

She feels a strange sense of déjà vu.

Before she can dwell on it further though, the boy tugs at her hand. “Lady…” He blinks up at her fearfully and Marinette realizes the situation they’re in. The pillar they hide behind won’t stand for long, and the ground around them is turning out to be a literal minefield. With no sign of Team Miraculous nearby, they needed to get out of here, _fast._

“Hold on.”

Marinette surveys the area, eyes focusing on a narrow, but safe backstreet she knew led away from the amok. She peeks around the column for a closer look at the amok, and notices something about its design. Lastly, her eyes drop to her bag of art supplies. Soft bells ring in her mind as a plan begins to form, and though she’s terrified out of her mind, she feels better with some sort of direction now.

Dumping out the contents of her bag, Marinette smiles down at the boy beside her. He smiles back shakily. With only a little bit of her own fear seeping out, she whispers, “All right, now listen to me and do exactly as I say…?” She trails off in a silent question.

“…August,” the boy replies, supplying his name shyly.

She grins, tearing out a sheet of paper and pulling out a thick marker. Hurriedly, the young designer scribbles something on the paper.

“Okay, August. Here’s the plan.”


	6. civilians like you

Okay, so maybe her plan wasn’t _the greatest,_ but she had one! She did her best! She stuck her neck out for someone despite her fears!

At least, that’s what Marinette tells herself as she sprints down the streets of Paris’s 11th arrondissement, soggy papers with taunts scrawled in large lettering tucked underneath her arm. Her legs are burning and her heart is pounding wildly in her chest—if it weren’t for the adrenaline surging through her veins, Marinette feels like she wouldn’t be able to dodge the lightning bolts thrown her way. Another shoots past her shoulder, barely missing her head by a few inches.

Earlier, she had emerged from the pillar with a sign held high over her head. She had taken a deep breath, jumped up and down wildly, and shouted at the top of her lungs what she had written.

“Hey! This may come as a _shock,_ but if you want to hit us, try aiming! _”_

She waves the sign, just incase she was too far away to be heard.

The storm amok had turned to her, and Marinette had hoped the distance was enough that it couldn’t see her shaking like a leaf. Marinette doesn’t know what possessed her to sling _lightning puns_ at the amok to distract it, but it works. In response, the amok let out an enraged roar and focused its attention on solely her.

“YOU!” And the ground rumbles.

“Run, August!” Marinette shouts, running opposite to the boy’s escape. She shoots a glance over her shoulder to make sure the boy was safe. To her relief, August followed her orders to a T and didn’t once look back. He’s safe.

Her lips curve into a smile.

The air crackles and the smile drops from her face. Another lightning bolt zaps by her and Marinette ducks, at the same time spinning around to round an unfamiliar corner. She’s unaccustomed to his part of the arrondissement and thoroughly lost. Her nervousness grows. To add to her fears, the amok’s attacks increase in frequency as it gets closer.

“Wow, you really can’t _conduct_ yourself, can you?” she yells behind her. “I know lightning forks, but— _ohm_ -y god!” That last part wasn’t even rehearsed.

This attack is close— _too close._ An arc of light explodes the sidewalk in front of her. Marinette just has enough control to throw herself to the side.

“ _Ngh…”_

The twenty-five-year-old lands roughly on the edges of the blackened, but not charred, stone. Her ankle screams with pain at the awkward angle, and her hands sting from where they’ve scraped to break her fall. She thinks she’s hit her head, if the dizziness is anything to go by. She can’t tell which way is up and which way is down, much less how to Marinette blinks rapidly to do away with the black spots in her vision as she grapples for footing, for stability, _something,_ because she knows she has to _keep moving,_ because if she stops, she’s _dead._

 _Though,_ she thinks, her ocean eyes unfocused, her body so, so cold, _that wouldn’t be the worst. At least August was able to get away._

…

But then she thinks about Luka, her parents, grandparents, Alya, Nino— _Adrien_ , a tiny voice echoes in her mind—and so many, too many people, and she can’t. A groan escapes her lips. Somehow, she finds it in herself to stand shakily. Dimly, she registers the air crackling again.

Her blue eyes flit to a nearby alleyway. It looks small, cramped, and possibly a dead end, but she can’t keep running in the open streets with her injuries. At least in the cover of the tightly-packed buildings, Marinette might have a few moments of rest. She surveys the street for any more ideas, but nothing really stands out to her. Shifty alleyway it is.

She takes a step. Stumbles. Takes another. It’s better. It’s on the third step that pain lances up her leg and she gasps, keeling forward just as her vision is flooded with light.

Warm, clawed hands wrap around her torso, pulling her close.

Marinette barely has time to react before she’s being lifted bridal-style, one hand behind her back and gripping her shoulder, another behind her knees and holding just as tightly. One second, she’s shivering and shaking on the ground, the next she’s hovering somewhere between the third and fourth floors of the nearest apartment building. Marinette blinks owlishly at the reflection in a window. Her vision still hasn’t cleared up, but she can tell she’s utterly drenched and unrecognizable from the normally put-together, stylish Marinette Dupain-Cheng she usually is.

 _Oh. I’m being rescued,_ is what she thinks.

The navy-haired woman sputters unintelligibly instead.

“Woh-hoh,” a familiar voice snickers from above her head, “someone’s gotten the amok all _amped_ up. It’s a good thing I got here _lightning fast_.”

_More puns. Wonderful. Just super. I had it under control!_

Marinette feels more than hears the chuckle of her savior, a low rumble that sounds so free. He’s laughing at her. She has the strange urge to smack the black-clad chest and retort with—with _something_. Then the superhero adjusts his grip on her and she’s almost content to just curl up in his arms and accept the teasing.

Almost. She groans again, though this time from exasperation. “I had it,” she mumbles.

A thoughtful hum. “You did put up a good _resistance_.”

To her delight— _consternation, consternation!—_ Chat Noir laughs quietly again. Her stomach flip-flops, though that could be attributed to the jump with its a sharp rise followed by a sharp fall. They touch on large stone steps leading up to what looks to be a library, or a school. It’s only after he sets her down that Marinette attempts to fix her hair, which had been mostly plastered over her face in a soaking, tangled mess.

“Still, you should leave the superhero business to us. Fighting amoks is not for civilians like… you…”

Marinette pulls the last of her navy-blue hair away. She opens her mouth for a snappy retort, and perhaps a heartfelt thanks because god knows the superhero got enough flak as it is, but stops when she sees the other’s expression.

Marinette’s every instinct is screaming at her to _run,_ even more so than with the amok, because danger radiates from every pore of the man. His body is tense, his ears are set back, and his clawed hands are clenched into tight fists. There’s no trace of the—admittedly uncharacteristically—good-natured Noir. Every bit of warmth between them has bled out into an icy, stifling atmosphere.

Noir is _glaring_ at her.


	7. a little cracked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Korean soap opera music that really gets me in the mood: https://open.spotify.com/track/2ES5x2KyfEeyplKPW0hkA5?si=2qcF4DujRuSbCi8fBuy2vg . It means "I Miss You", and is from the drama that inspired like 60% of this fic.
> 
> Also, "Mudang Boelle" roughly means "spirit bug", or "Ladybug" in Korean.

Adrien Agreste is a professional model.

He knows how to arrange his lips to disclose an entire novel of either filth or innocence, and is well aware of how arrange his body accordingly. He’s very intimate with the camera, has years of experience in looking at the lens _just so_ to incite feelings of lust, fear, pity, envy, infatuation—whatever people want from him. When people look at him, they see what he wants them to see, which, more often than not, is what they want in the first place.

Chloé wants a happy, healthy Adrien Agreste, so in the car he smiles and plays the part of a mischievous jokester. When news of an amok hit them halfway to the Agreste studios, he offers a cheeky smirk and sing-songs, “Today must be my lucky day!” before skipping out to transform in one of Paris’s back alleys.

Team Miraculous wants a playful, easygoing Guardian, so he grins and cocks his head to the side at Rena Rouge and her chosen candidate. He was right on the money with his predictions—Mireille Caquet’s nut-brown eyes meet his nervously behind a spotted red mask, clearly aware of his stiff, standoffish reputation. His demeanor puts the weatherwoman off at first, but she eventually relaxes as he gives her a general plan for confronting the amok.

Paris wants a capable, friendly Chat Noir, so he smirks and teases the civilian that’s landed herself in a bit more trouble than she expected. She bristles at his remarks, but she’s not scared of him. He doesn’t think she even realizes she’s leaning into his chest as he skillfully dodges the amok’s attacks. It’s… easy, acting like he used to.

Adrien Agreste almost believes in his own mask.

“Still, you should leave the superhero business to us,” he quips in the ultra-suave Chat Noir voice he hasn’t used in years. The words are so easy, and something about this woman just begged to be teased with, messed with. “Fighting amoks is not for civilians like… you…”

The façade shatters when he looks down and locks eyes with Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Really, he should have expected it to be her. No one else is so foolish, so clever, so _hardheaded_ as to challenge an A4 amok like she did and get away with it. In fact, if anyone else had displayed that level of selfless creativity, Adrien would be offering them the Ladybug Miraculous himself on the spot.

But it’s not just anyone. It’s _her,_ and he can’t _breathe._

Adrien dimly registers his hands curling into tight fists, feels the red half-moons forming underneath the skintight suit. He wants to grasp her shoulders instead and shake her.

_You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? This is just another one of your games, right, my lady? Appearing in front of me. Now, of all times…_

He’s spent years keeping his distance like _she wanted_ , wasted months after seeing her again for the first time on accident just trying to _forget,_ and burned the entirety of Paris fashion week in solitude watching her afar instead of attending any of the events because he knows she’d be there. Point is, Adrien has _stayed away_ because that’s what she wanted from him all along when she left him with just a tiny note and a box of responsibilities. He’s followed her wishes the best he could like the loyal dog he is, no matter how much it hurt him.

He’d given her up.

And then out of the blue, Marinette Dupain-Cheng—the once-Ladybug, the forever love of his life—waltzes in with the same soft, spunky courage that had hooked him in the first place, risking her life and putting all her skills to use against a greater enemy.

Jaw clenched, he studies her.

Marinette looks… different up close—all grown up, but Adrien supposes that’s what happens when you don’t see someone for years. Her face is a bit sharper, having lost some of that youthful roundness from their lycée years. Her hair is longer and comes down to her middle back—which was the reason he hadn’t recognized her at first, honestly—and he’s reminded of ditching parties, horsing around in ball pits, and sharing ice cream. His eyes trail down and note that she’s grown past her awkward teenager phase, all soft curves in the right places. With some faint amusement, he realizes she hasn’t grown an inch since he’s last spoken to her. That amusement vanishes when he takes in her eyes, a roiling, ocean blue that stares right back at him with confusion, concern, and… fear.

_She’s only looked at me like that once._

So much of Marinette has changed, but out of everything, the look in her eyes? That’s what gets him. Something bubbles in the back of his throat, and Adrien almost laughs. He stops himself. He doesn’t know if he would be able to stop.

He’s aware of his own changes. Unconsciously, a clawed hand rises to where his bell used to be. Having her look at him like that is like a slap in the face, because…

 _You made me like this,_ Adrien wants to scream at her. He doesn’t, though. He just stands there and stares and glares and— _dammit—_ cares.

“Um… are you all right?” Marinette asks, reaching out a hand in concern.

Adrien instinctively wants to both lean into her touch and jerk back. He’s thankful that his body chooses the latter, even if a strangled sound escapes his lips. Marinette’s eyes widen at the violent reaction, her hand freezing between them. If there was any doubt in Adrien’s mind that his Ladybug was well and truly erased, well, there isn’t any doubt now. Ladybug—Marinette—would never be scared of him. She’d see his reflex for what it was, pull him close, talk him through it…

Or maybe he’s just idealizing the past.

The blond blinks and schools his expression into something more neutral. The mask slips over his face once more, steady, if not a little cracked.

“I’m fine,” he replies stiffly, not even bothering to explain his strange behavior.

Instead, Noir turns around to study the amok.

Queen Bee nimbly dodges the amok’s projectiles as she weaves in and out, stinging what she can in hopes of hitting the amok’s feather. Meanwhile, Rena Rouge and Mudang Beolle are distracting the amok out of the residential areas and into the more streets to minimize the damage—a strategy he knows will be unnecessary with the Miraculous Cure, but it never hurt to be prepared for the worst. Jade green eyes follow Mudang Beolle’s movements. She’s light on her feet, if a little shy to be on the offensive. Additionally, her yo-yo strings sometimes clip Rena’s illusions, making them vanish in a puff of orange smoke.

There doesn’t seem to be much luck in locating the source of the amok. They’d need him soon for that, but first—

He should leave Marinette. She doesn’t need him. She’s safe here, at the steps of their old high school, but there’s still a part of him that wants to shield her from harm. Noir thinks back to how she looked running from the amok’s lightning bolts, a memory made more potent knowing it was Marinette.

With pursed lips, he pulls out his baton and dials a contact.

Viperion answers on the first ring.

“Yes, Noir?” he answers, respectful as ever. As usual, the snake hero was standing off to the side of the battle, his ability on reserve for emergencies. Viperion has a hand on his bracelet, suggesting he’s already used Second Chance.

Polite, dutiful, protective, _good._ Noir wishes Viperion were easy to hate.

“Will the battle go smoothly without you? The amok was coming after a civilian personally earlier. She could still be in danger and I need someone to watch over her.” He sounds calm, authoritative. He is anything but.

Viperion’s brow furrows. His teal eyes glance to the battle at hand—Queen Bee had taken a rather nasty hit to her shoulder, leaving Rena Rouge to scoop her up and out of danger—and then back to Noir. “It’s doable,” he hedges, reluctant to leave his teammates, but also not wanting to disobey orders.

Noir tilts the camera diagonally, showing the woman behind him.

“Front of Françoise Dupont High School. You know the place,” he tells Viperion before shutting off communication.

Noir doesn’t face Marinette after the call. Instead, he coolly spins the baton in his hands. “Stay here. One of the others will come to watch over you until the amok is taken care of.” The baton elongates before striking the ground with a little more force than necessary. He crouches his knees, ready to use the momentum to lift off and rejoin the battle.

Her voice is quiet, but firm. “Wait.”

He does. He always does. His head tilts to the right in acknowledgement.

“August—the boy—"

He hates the way she sounds so concerned. “If it’s about the kid, he’s fine. I had Bee take him somewhere safe while I went for you.”

“Oh, that’s good. I also wanted to say that I think I know where the amok is. Its eyes—they both glow red, but only one of them… blinks? The right one. And it favors its left throwing arm, that’s how I was able to dodge for so long.”

He bites his lip _hard_. The taste of blood seeps into his mouth, but at least Adrien doesn’t start screaming at how unsure and _Ladybug-like_ Marinette sounds, all calculatingly observant with a hint of that rare self-doubt. He hates this.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Noir says pleasantly, but his tone is cool and detached. His muscles tense again, gearing to leave when she interrupts him one more time.

“Noir.”

_What? What more could you possibly want?_

“Thank you,” she tells him sincerely. The man turns to her in surprise, momentarily forgetting his own rule of not looking at her, lest she read him like the pathetic open book he is. Out of anything she could have said, he was not expecting _that._ As if sensing his thoughts, Marinette shuffles nervously, but continues, “Not just for saving August and me, but for what you’re doing for Paris. I know it must have been hard…” _Without Ladybug. With half of Paris wishing it were him that had died._ “…but there are people that really appreciate all you’ve sacrificed for us. I know I do, and I can’t even imagine—so thanks. Thank you so much.”

He turns and leaves without another word.


	8. nothing to worry about

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pretty much listened to "White Mercedes" by Charli XCX and "feel something" by Bea Miller on repeat while writing this. I also cried my eyes out--ow, ow, ow... writing is nice and therapeutic, but the morning afters are just--pfft.
> 
> Also, I changed the rating of the fic back to T. Rating could still change, but we're not there yet, and I'm not sure if I'm the type to even cross that line. Oh well.

Marinette’s world is reduced to three sensations.

Wet.

Alone and staring out at Paris’s empty streets as rain crash around her, water permeates every layer of clothing, making the fabric cling uncomfortably to her skin. Droplets land in her hair, glide down her forehead, collect in the corners of her eyes, slide down her cheeks, drip off of her chin. Her lips part slightly. The taste of salt hits her tongue.

Cold.

It’s so, so cold. The water leeches every bit of warmth her dainty body had to offer. Noir’s final dismissal extinguished whatever heat had flared in her heart from the sound of his laughter, his playful teases. Icy fingers creep up her forearms—she dimly registers the digits as her own—in a pathetic attempt of warmth.

Numb.

Now that the high of the chase has worn off, Marinette knows she should move. Maybe she could check the high school’s front doors to see if they’re locked—it’s a late summer weekend, but maybe some clubs were meeting today? Maybe she should at least get out of the rain, stand under the meager shelter near the entrance. Maybe she should blink.

_Why did I say all of that to him?_

It had been pure impulse, holding back the black-suited hero for those few precious moments. Marinette doesn’t know what came over her then, just that he couldn’t leave, not yet, not until— _something._ And when he had looked at her questioningly and that something never came, she had rambled everything she was thinking.

Blue eyes blink slowly against the rain. She still doesn’t budge from her spot.

 _Stay,_ he had told her.

_Noir. Chat Noir. Something—_

In their short time, Marinette felt equal amounts of attraction and repulsion, like a spinning magnet, constantly switching poles. There was _something_ in Noir that was familiar, drawing her in like the memory of a dream, but at the same time, she couldn’t ignore the utter viciousness in his gaze—a viciousness that lasted for only a split second, but she saw it all the same.

The full intensity of it—

She shudders, partially from the weather, but mostly from the memory. She just wants to feel something.

Viperion finds her blinking distractedly in the rain. He lands gently beside her, hair equally soaked but the water running cleanly off his suit. His signature wire is strapped to his hip. When she sees the snake hero arrive, Marinette smiles, and it grows softer and more sincere once she sees the clear worry on his face. Team Miraculous had a reputation for being so kind.

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you.” His voice is soft. It reminds her of someone.

“Hey. Viperion, right? I’m Marinette,” she says cheerfully, holding out her hand. The snake hero hesitates in accepting the handshake, and it takes her a second to understand why. She laughs flippantly and pushes her hand further out despite the heavy scrapes on her palms.

“I tripped earlier running from the amok. Don’t worry, it doesn’t even hurt much.”

Gently, he takes her hand in his, dwarfing it. A soft, exasperated expression takes over his masked eyes and he shakes his head. “Come on, let’s get you out of the rain. Your ankle doesn’t look too great,” Viperion smiles, gesturing to her ankle that’s swollen from the fall she took. Gingerly, he slings her arm over his shoulders in support, walking slowly to the school’s entrance.

Marinette grimaces. It looks worse than it is, but she can’t deny that it hurts.

“Eheh… I’m just clumsy. So, so clumsy…” She trails off as she realizes something, or rather, the lack of something on her shoulders. Wide blue eyes turn to the teal-haired hero. “Oh no! My bag—I dropped it when I fell!”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Well, we have a Ladybug today. Once she performs the Miraculous Cure, you should get your things back easily.”

“No, that’s not it. My boyfriend. When the amok first appeared, I left him a message to call me since we were both in the danger zone.” She bites her lip in worry. “He must have called me back and when I didn’t answer…”

To her surprise, Viperion’s serene expression cracks. Teal eyes widen. His grip slackens. He stills, his facial features tightening, and it looks like he’s— _is he biting the inside of his lips?_ Marinette narrows her eyes. He’s definitely trying not to laugh, or at least smile, and he’s failing horribly.

“Not funny,” she grumbles, shoving him off.

_Okay, it’s a little funny._

“…sorry.” Viperion smiles at her, his amusement schooled back to that same calm. “I didn’t mean to laugh. My girlfriend does the same thing with me. Sometimes it’s hard to get away to be Viperion.”

_Oh._

Mollified, Marinette drops her crossed arms and settles for leaning against one of the school pillars.

“If you two are anything like us though, I think you’ll be all right,” he continues. His eyes shift to the amok fight—it looks to be almost over, a barely-recognizable dark shape zipping up and into the mentioned red eye—but he keeps talking calmly, softly. “You seem like a capable woman, and even though your boyfriend will worry, I’m sure he knows that. Hell, he’ll probably be proud of you for saving that kid.”

Marinette’s smile turns rueful.

“That makes one person, then.”

_Noir glaring at her. Noir feeding her stiff, carefully composed lines while his eyes bely an animalistic impulse. The intense draw she felt towards him. The bite of his acts._

Some of that must have shown on her face because in the next moment, Viperion is there and scrutinizing her. Marinette shifts uncomfortably. Unconsciously, her arms come back up, this time to cover her forearms. She feels itchy.

“What do you mean? Did something happen?”

She smiles wanly. “Nothing to worry about.” Then, because the other man’s gaze feels stifling, she innocently adds, “Is it just me or do you make it a habit to pry with every civilian you watch over?”

It’s a clear message to back off. Viperion blinks, and steps back, remembering himself. “Sorry.”

A silent awkwardness settles over the two of them, hero and civilian. Marinette doesn’t notice it much though, as her attention shifts back to the battle, or rather, the black shape of Noir as he nimbly dodged and struck back at the amok. When he disappears behind the buildings for good, she sighs.

A glowing swarm of red ladybugs arise from the area, sweeping across Paris.

Marinette blinks as they surround her. When she next opens her eyes, she’s back to how she was before the attack. Her ankle is healed. The scrapes on her palms are wiped away. Lastly, her bag hangs over her shoulder, her open sketchbook haphazardly leaning past the open zipper. She takes out the notebook and is pleasantly surprised to see that her sketch from earlier— a tall lean figure. Golden locks. Sharp cheekbones. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes. A tantalizingly-dangerous, feline air—are intact. Smiling, she closes the book, not noticing a pair of teal eyes also fixated on the drawing.

After putting the sketchbook away, Marinette pulls out her phone. No missed messages. Wherever Luka was, he was fine thanks to the Cure, but Marinette still rolls her eyes. Typical of musician, really.

“Thanks for watching over me,” she tells Viperion kindly, because he was just doing his job. It’s not his fault she didn’t like the concern, the worry, the scrutiny. She points to her phone, a lock screen of her with her arms around Luka and smiling on display. “You can get back to the others now. I’m just going to call him before heading home.”

Viperion nods. Before he leaves though, he gives her one last look. His mouth opens, a question burning on his lips, but eventually he closes it and nods again.

Marinette’s thumb hovers over the ‘Call’ button. After a few seconds, she shuts off her phone and walks down the street, bag slung over her head.

Luka didn’t need to know what happened today. Knowing would lead to worry, and… she already relies on him too much. She doesn’t need, nor does she want, to add onto his plate, not when he has his own worries and career to think about. First Adrien this morning, and now Chat Noir—her strange fixation and problems with the two men were hers to deal with, just like her spotty memories.

Sighing, Marinette joins the crowd of a waking Paris.


	9. echoing around her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feeling when you don't know where you're going so you write 2000 words until you do. Then you erase those 2000 words and write 2000 more. Gahhhh!

Five days pass.

The return of Ladybug on the scene has gotten Paris in an uproar. It seems as if every mouth, every media outlet, every mind is consumed and fixated on this spectacle, because as soon as one Ladybug appears to save the day, she—or he—disappears and is replaced by a different person in the same black-and-red spotted suit for the next amok fight.

Yes, for every new amok, there is a new Ladybug, and it seems as if Paonne had taken the resurfacing of the red hero as a challenge. There has been an amok almost every day since Saturday.

The first one on the Saturday afternoon of the lightning amok had been a slender, black-haired woman with a shy personality. There was little footage of ‘Mudang Beolle,’ but she was clearly instrumental in defeating the amok, even if her role differed from the original Ladybug in the fight. In the most popular 30-second clip posted on the Ladyblog, it was clear to see she was the distraction for the amok instead of the strategist.

The one to follow was a dramatic, overly-enthusiastic man that bore a striking resemblance to Noir. Unlike for Mudang Beolle, are videos aplenty of ‘Red Beetle,’ mostly because people wanted to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired beauty. Still, very few are disappointed—Red Beetle puts on a show in taking down Sunday’s amok, dancing gleefully between attacks while yelling something about “Adrien Agreste rights” the whole time. A gif of Pegasus facepalming goes viral.

Monday’s Ladybug was a withdrawn, bookish sort of fellow with goggles and scarlet locks. ‘Khepri’ was a different hero than the first two, eager to submit his own ideas for how to take down the amok. There’s footage of even Noir and Queen Bee nodding their heads to a plan before attempting to execute it. Attempt was the key word—Khepri tripped on his own yo-yo string midflight, much to the consternation of a certain rabbit-themed heroine. Still, the plan goes smoothly the second time around.

The most recent Ladybug was a well-muscled woman with short red hair and soft teal eyes. On Wednesday, she appears on the scene on the back of King Monkey. Unlike her predecessors, ‘Coccinelle’ stays out of combat almost entirely, only using her yo-yo to pull teammates out of harm’s way or to lift one of the more immobile heroes to more strategic locations. ‘Almost’ is the keyword, though, because as soon as the amok struck King Monkey halfway to the Eiffel Tower, a furious Coccinelle unleashed a dizzying flurry of attacks on the amok irrespective of where they landed.

Fortunately, Paonne seems to be letting up on the daily amoks. After the initial constant stream of supernatural amokizations, there was none on Tuesday and this Thursday afternoon was looking to be an amok-free day as well.

Marinette is glad.

Paris is resilient, but the constant disruptions to the day was causing a bit of a headache at her workplace. Not that working at a fast-fashion, direct-to-consumer sales company like Anne-Marie Bélanger wasn’t enough of a headache already, but the young designer appreciates the time she gets to actually sit down and finish up the line sheet for that one flowy autumn dress, or to answer a few of the million emails she has sitting in her inbox.

This late afternoon finds her stabbing at a salad with her left hand while her right furiously types the fifth email to the Indian factory that was _supposed to message her yesterday, god damn it._

“How hard is it,” she grumbles between bites, “to confirm these things on ti—ow!”

She misses her plate and stabs herself on accident. And really, that was enough of an excuse to take a real break. The fashion designer hits ‘Send’ on the email before wiping the dressing off of her hand and turning her phone back on to check her texts.

Marinette isn’t surprised to see that her mom has flooded her messages. With a smile, she scrolls through Sabine Dupain-Cheng’s messages about the boxes Marinette had yet to move into her new place. After all these years, her mother was still sending _at most_ three words per text. Marinette messages back that she’ll get them after work today.

There’s a couple of texts from Alya and some of the girls, asking if she would be able to make it for drinks and karaoke this coming weekend. Marinette smiles and responds with an affirmative. She wasn’t much of a singer, only average at best, but Luka had a voice that could melt butter.

She frowns a little when she sees the empty notifications from Luka. She hasn’t _really_ talked to the musician in for a couple days, just a stray text here and there, a “good morning” or “good evening” and such. As per her resolve the afternoon of the lightning amok, Marinette had refrained from telling him of her involvement.

 _Perhaps… I’ve been too distant,_ Marinette thinks guiltily.

Biting her lip, she dials his number. It’s her lunch break, but Luka was a monster in the studio. He spent almost every moment either composing or performing or recording, and she loved him for it, even though it frustrated her to no end when he took ages to respond. He probably wouldn’t even pick up this ti—

“Marinette. Hey,” Luka’s deep voice comes in after the second ring. He sounds surprised. Honestly, she is too.

“Oh. Uhm. Hi!” she replies, sounding confused even though she’s the one that called in the first place.

Luka chuckles. “Marinette, did you nee—”

“Do you want to come over tonight?” she blurts out before she could change her mind. “I’ll be a little late, but we could order some Indian takeaway, watch a movie or something?”

“Or something?” he teases.

She flushes. “Luka…”

He laughs again, and Marinette closes her eyes with a smile, committing the sound to memory. It’s always this pleasant, rumbling thing, echoing around her and filling in the emptiness that creeps up sometimes.

“That sounds great. I’ll meet you outside your workplace at 9?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that should be fine.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

Another laugh, and this time she even joins. Just like that, the cold war between them disappears without a trace as they fall into the easy rhythm of just _being together._ Marinette considers sticking around—her work could wait, maybe—but there’s someone talking behind Luka’s end of the line.

“I missed you, but I gotta go. Band’s calling me. Love you.”

As always—“All right. Love you, too.”

The smile on her face persists as she returns to the emails, thoughts of Ladybugs and amoks far from her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... today's my birthday. I really despise it, and spent like 30 minutes this morning crying over messages from friends and family that don't know I hate it. I mean, I'm all right now, I just feel numb... I don't know, I guess I just wanted to say this somewhere where people don't know me. Writing this story and author's note makes me feel better, anyways.
> 
> See you guys soon!


	10. just some trinkets from lycée

After getting off from work—with promises to come in bright and early in the morning to help out with some last-minute arrangements—Marinette had gone straight to her parents’ bakery to pick up the last of her things. Since she had already gotten past the worst of the move with Luka’s help, the rest of her things fit in one, medium box she could just wrap her arms around. It isn’t even that heavy, and she’s able to lift it in one try.

“Are you going to be okay, sweetie?” her mother asks, yawning.

Marinette gives her a reassuring smile. “Yeah. My new place is great, and Luka has helped me a lot.” Her eyes soften fondly when the short Chinese woman lets out another yawn. She jostles the box a little and hears a smattering of metal, hollowness, and the heaviness of what could only be books. “What’s in here, anyways? I thought I already got everything.”

“Oh, it’s just some trinkets from lycée. I found them in the storage closet and thought you might want them…”

The fashion designer nods thoughtfully. That _did_ seem like something she’d forget to take.

“Okay. Thanks, mom.”

“You’re welcome, Marinette. Maybe come a little earlier next time? You know how your father is, always wanting to know how his little girl is doing every second of the day.”

Marinette smiles.

-x-

The next stop is Paris-Féni, a cozy Indian restaurant not too far away from her new place. She’d already placed her order earlier, so all she has to do is pick it up.

Marinette steps into the small establishment, the heavenly smells of spices and cooking meats hitting her as soon as she enters. The place is bathed in a warm golden light, lighting up the slightly-smoky room. Since it’s already so late, there’s only one other customer here, another young woman talking imperiously on the phone as she places her order. To Marinette’s slight amusement, the worker—his nametag reads ‘Ramesh’—looks unsettled by the slender woman.

It takes Marinette all of two seconds to figure out why.

The woman is Chloé Bourgeois. She hasn’t spoken her since lycée. As the door closes behind Marinette, the blonde meets her eyes. She also looks surprised to see the young fashion designer, but after a quick nod of acknowledgment, Chloé returns to her call.

“What do you want? I sent you a picture of the menu.” A beat, then Chloé rolls her eyes. “No, they don’t—it’s an Indian place, they don’t have camembert. It’s mostly just curries and stuff. I don’t know, you have the menu. Just pick something.” Another beat. “Fine, I’ll ask.”

In a sweet voice, Chloé asks the restaurant worker. “Hi. Is there anything here that has cheese?”

“Ma’am, we have a paneer butter masala and paneer makhani.”

“And the paneer thing is the cheese?” she asks insistently.

Chloé has her back to her, so Marinette can’t see the blonde’s expression. She can, however, see Ramesh’s, and he looks utterly intimidated. Marinette doesn’t blame him. Chloé’s always had that do-what-I-say-or-I’ll-step-on-you aura, one that matured from just plain bullying in lycée to a forceful charisma that undoubtedly got her far in the fashion industry. Marinette’s almost envious.

“Y-yes ma’am. We m-make it fresh.”

The blonde turns back to her phone, flipping her ponytail. “Well? How does that sound? Okay. Okay, got it. Ask him if he wants anything.” The person on the phone responds back after ten seconds. “He doesn’t want anything? Ugh—okay, whatever, I’ll just order for him.”

Chloé hits ‘Mute’ and turns back to the restaurant worker. With a grimace, she orders enough food to feed a family of six, four of which are growing teenage boys.

“Listen,” the blonde says, sounding world-weary, “all of those orders I just placed? I’ll pay double if you just dump as much paneer cheese as possible on everything but the chicken tikka masala. Keep that one normal.”

The worker looks shocked. “Double?”

Chloé nods seriously. “Triple if you don’t make me repeat myself. Just the thought of that much cheese makes me sick.” And indeed, she looks like she’s about to hurl.

Marinette giggles, wondering who on earth was on the other end of the line. Whoever it was, they sounded like a handful, but a capable handful, if they got Chloé picking up takeaway for them. She had to wonder about the cheese though.

“I’m guessing your friend isn’t a model,” she comments after letting Ramesh know about her order. She sets her box down and leans against the counter casually, but carefully, to observe the other woman.

Chloé shoots her a wry smile. “No, but he works closely with them. I think he overeats to compensate. Disgusting, really.” But despite her caustic words, her eyes are soft and she sounds fond.

“I know _exactly_ what you mean. Luka does that sometimes around Juleka. Sometimes he gets Nino in on it,” the fashion designer confides knowingly. As much as she loved the guy… his methods of taking care of his sister left much to be desired.

A snort from the blonde. “Big brother figures are the worst. Makes me glad I’m an only child.”

Both women hum in agreement. It’s nice, actually. Marinette fully relaxes against the counter. It seems as if the years have really mellowed out the woman that was once her former bully-slash-rival. Of course, Chloé is still the same at her core—sharp edges, cutting humor, demanding attitude—but there is a softness to her now, a softness that isn’t directed at Marinette.

Marinette can’t help but think that she’s intruded on something personal earlier with the phone call, even if she’s just ordering takeout.

Chloé breaks the silence. “Oh, Dupain-Cheng.”

“Hm?”

“Just wanted to say… nice designs. I saw your sketchbook on Saturday. Where are you working at now?”

For a moment, the half-Chinese woman had forgotten that she wasn’t just talking with Chloé Bourgeois, her childhood rival, but also Queen Bee, one of the heroes of Paris. And, apparently, the blonde had seen her personal sketchbook, the one with kept to herself. With a light blush on her face, Marinette thanks her and answers with her company name. Chloé raises an eyebrow.

“Bélanger? You’re wasted there.”

Marinette shrugs. It’s a job, and it’s in her dream field. She knew she could do better, pursue something more challenging, but… something always holds her back. She shifts nervously under Chloé’s piercing icy stare. Thankfully, Ramesh returns with a large bag of Indian food, saving Marinette from feeling obligated to explain herself. Quickly, she pays and stacks the bag atop her box of trinkets.

“Bye Chloé. It was nice to see you again.” She even means it.

The blonde waves her off, already tapping away at her phone.

“Likewise, Dupain-Cheng. Likewise.”

-x-

_Knock, knock, knock._

A scuffling sound on the other side of the penthouse door. A muffled argument. A shuffling of feet.

Finally, the door opens just a crack to reveal a tired-looking, unamused Adrien Agreste. Glancing behind him, Chloé can see Plagg casually hanging out on the white leather couch, a smartphone in his hands as he plays a racing game. The kwami looks completely innocent, even as his holder glares at him, and even as Chloé looks to him with a sort of betrayed expression that reads _you planned this with me, but you didn’t even tell him I was coming?_

Plagg slow-blinks at her. She sighs.

Adrien regards her suspiciously. “What’re you doing here.” It’s not a question so much as it is a reprimand.

“Can’t I just want to have dinner with my best friend in the entire world?” she simpers. Then she sighs, gesturing as best as she can with her hands, laden down with food as they are. “Help me already, Adrikins. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and we both know you’re not winning this one. Look. I even got your favorite.” She picks up the bag with the chicken in it and waves it in front of his face, the aroma hitting his nose just right.

Adrien looks at her, conflict clear in his eyes. “My dietician isn’t going to like this,” he hedges.

She waves him off flippantly. “Sabrina’ll get over it. It’s not like I brought cake or anything.”

That seems to relax him somewhat.

With a sigh, he backs up and undoes the locks to let her in. Chloé does a quick sweep of the penthouse as she enters, her eyes scanning every exposed area. No wine bottles. No smashed glass, torn papers, or trashed furniture. The only decorations around—a clear bowl holding the shards of the vase she’d gifted Adrien, a tall painting, and a cat tower—are untouched. They’re gathering dust, even. Apart from being a little messy, Adrien’s place is actually fine.

Green eyes meet blue, the man knowing exactly what she’s doing.

_Well, he can’t blame me for what happened last time._

Chloé plays it off and sets the barely-warm food down on the coffee table. From there, it is just the simple tasks of taking out their respective boxes—Plagg eagerly pulls the lion’s share over to his side of the table, much to Chloé and Pollen’s disgust—and eating, a few snatches of casual conversation coming in between bites. They don’t talk about anything past this morning and beyond this room. They just eat and enjoy each other’s company, even if that mostly comes from watching the two kwami interact.

They don’t sing.

After, Chloé sighs, reclines in the couch, and gestures towards her lap. After a few seconds of hesitation, Adrien slowly rests his head on her—admittedly bony—thighs. She then pets his head twice before reaching for her phone to browse Instagram.

A thousand words are on the tip of her tongue, wanting to be spilled. Chloé tamps it down. There would be time later to tell him about her run-in with Marinette, just as there would be time to talk about the Ladybugs of the past few days and what their chances really were at becoming a permanent holder, at defeating Paonne. There would be time, but that time was not tonight.

Instead, Chloé focuses on being the soft, but sturdy rock only one other person in her life was for her. It’s not her style, but… she’s in debt to that person. And it’s not as if she’s not getting anything out of it either. Chloé’s being selfish with Adrien, even when she’s returning the favor to the girl who forgot she even had favors to call in.

She pats the head on her lap again. This time, he sinks into her warmth tiredly.

“Happy birthday, Adrien.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Self-Indulgence, the Fic. 
> 
> Kidding. This was like 2.25/3 plot, I swear.


	11. be better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my laptop committed computer apoptosis. I have a new one, but my documents got lost on the old one... haha... ha... Anyways, here's something completely different than what I had written.

Adrien opens his eyes to pitch blackness. 

Slowly, he rises, careful not to wake the slumbering woman up--not that he had to be too careful. Chloé’s always been a heavy sleeper. With a ghost of a smile, Adrien nudges her down gently until she’s laying fully on her side on the couch, light snores escaping from her lips. A thin, black throw blanket is placed over her form. Adrien then pauses, contemplating something. After a moment, he takes out his phone to record a short video.

There’s a crick in his neck from resting on Chloé’s lap. As he rubs it, he checks the time.

4:37 blinks at him. He blinks back.

That’s more sleep than he gets usually. His life has always been a demanding one--schedules planned and packed with activities for literally every hour. Adrien has attended countless 3AM photoshoots, caught innumerable late night flights to fashion events all over the world, sprung out of a barely-rumpled bed for a stray akuma or amok. Sleep? He doesn’t know her.

There’s a flash of yellow stirring from Chloé’s hair. Pollen. Soon, golden irises framed by navy sclera stare up at him.

Adrien raises an eyebrow at the kwami of subjugation. He raises a finger to his lips in a ‘shush’ motion, then gestures for her to follow him. Silent as a cat, Adrien stalks across the room, not glancing at the floating black figure also following close behind him. Plagg knows to stay quiet.

The blond soon stands in front of a large painting. 

It’s a gloomy thing. A swirl of black, navy, slate, and cobalt, the scene is of a cliffside wracked with crashing waves at night. There’s a lighthouse at the top, its dim golden light the only beacon for the ship battered by the waves. A sandy beach sprawls below, debris of a past wreckage littering the surface. And, through it all, there is a lone man walking fearlessly in the storm, a trail of quickly-fading footprints behind him.

Adrien leans forward and presses his fingers into those footprints. They sink in easily. A quiet hiss lets out as the painting rearranges itself, eventually parting to reveal a hidden door. He glances back at Chloé.

_ Still asleep. _

The man and the two kwamis slip in.

The room is dark at first, but when the trio enter, a soft light automatically switches on to reveal a cluttered study. 

There are four tables strewn around, newspaper, magazine clippings, and neatly-written notes covering their surfaces like tablecloths. A heavy, aged grimoire rests atop one. It’s been opened to reveal faded drawings and text in an archaic language. Another notebook--filled with French text--rests beside it with a nearly-empty pen.

Six boards, both cork and white, stand around, pictures of people and places tacked onto them with various colored strings and arrows connecting each one. The most sparsely-populated one contains pictures of Mireille Caquet, Wayhem Thomas, Ondine Bardes and more--all of the chosen Ladybugs so far. Beside each are notes in black and green marker of their fights with their amok.

_ Mireille Caquet,  _ reads one.  _ TVi weatherwoman (high profile). Calculating (strong lucky charm). Follows orders. Shy. Reactive. Avoids fights. Keeps secrets.  _ Underneath is a list of Miraculous holder names:  _ Rena Rouge. Carapace. Viperion. Alectryon. Souris. _

_ Wayhem Thomas,  _ reads another.  _ Computer engineer (low profile). Impulsive (weak lucky charm). Follows orders. Bold. Proactive. Initiates fights. Keeps secrets.  _ Underneath:  _ Pegasus. Ryuko. King Monkey. Black Bull. Pigsy. _

And so on.

Every bit of information on the Ladybugs. Every pro and con listed. Every likely vote in their favor from the Miraculous holders on the team.

A single swivel chair rests in the middle of all the organized chaos, and it’s into this chair that Adrien slumps.

Leaning heavily one the right armrest, he rests his head in his hand, a thumb hooking under his chin while the rest of his hand covers his mouth. He rubs his eyes. As is routine, he slides over to the table with the grimoire, but not before looking hard at all of his compiled evidence pointing towards the picture of a silhouette standing in for Paonne.

“Guardian?” Pollen inquires, ever so formal. Her eyes rove over the boards, coming to a rest on a calendar tacked onto the corner of one.

She’d only been inside this room twice. The first time was last year, when there was only a single desk and chair, the place having just been built. The second was last month, when two boards had been set up with only a few pictures and there were a few wine bottles on the floor. The addition of so much in such a short time…

Tired jade green eyes slide towards her. Eye makeup smudged, Pollen can see the heavy bags underneath. She flutters nervously.

“I didn’t plan for you two to show up, but since you’re here, Pollen, feel free to add your own notes,” Adrien mutters as he slowly works through the spellbook’s translation. His translation isn’t perfect, not even close, but he can almost make out the words in the scribbles. There’s a use for those Chinese lessons after all. “The black marker is mine. Green is Plagg’s. The orange should be fine.”

Adrien glances up from his hunched over position. Exhaustedly, he looks over to the black kwami.

“Go keep an eye on Chloé,” he orders.

Plagg phases out of the room, but not before a pointed look at Pollen.

Pollen obediently writes a few comments, mostly agreements to some of the points, before flying over to the blond man.

“Guardian…” she ventures again. Her golden eyes drift down to the translated text before quickly snapping back up. Kwami were not allowed to look into the ancient spellbook. In a cheery voice, Pollen adds, “Maybe you can take tonight off? It’s your birthday, and you deserve some rest!”

Adrien’s pen stills. 

“Thank you for your concern, Pollen. I really do appreciate what you and Chloé have done.” His voice is sincere, but he sounds so, so tired still. “But this is something I have to do. Who else knows as much as I do about the current Miraculous holders? Who else can translate like I can?”

No one. 

Perhaps it’s presumptuous and egotistical, maybe it’s the sign of a pathetic martyr complex, and it’s definitely presumptuous, but Adrien could handle this--has been, almost every night when sleep eludes him and the stress of being  _ him  _ weighs like the entire world.

He’s so close to cracking Paonne’s identity. And, even if he’s not, perhaps the spellbook would have what Team Miraculous needs. 

...but Pollen looks at him with wide eyes full of worry and heartbreak, the same look Plagg gave him over the racing game they had played on their phones earlier, and Adrien feels something give way. It’s like looking in a mirror.

He sighs.

With a significant look at the yellow kwami, Adrien continues, “I’ve already gotten two hours more sleep than usual. I’ll tell her when she wakes up, okay?” 

Pollen smiles. “Okay, Guardian.”

He then picks up the pen and continues on the paragraph about the Fox Miraculous.

When Chloé wakes up, it’s 8 in the morning. She blinks blearily at the sunshine slanting in from the windows, looking like a disgruntled cat when it hits her eyes just so. Adrien bites the inside of his lip to keep from smiling at the sight of the normally-immaculate woman with rumpled clothes and a bad bedhead.

“Morning, Chloé,” he says quietly from where he sits on the arm of the couch.

“Hm? How long have you been awake?” his manager yawns.

Adrien thinks she resembles another woman like this, all tired and resting on a comfy chair--the only sort of rest allowed for a busy person like herself. If he tilts his head just right, he can even imagine a red streak amongst all that gold.

His phone burns in his back pocket, the funny video of Chloé snoring just begging to be used. Adrien doesn’t have to tell her anything at all. Easily, he could take the video, show it to her, laugh a bit in that mischievous, Chat Noir style, and she’d eat it all up as the cover he intended it to be.

_ But… no. No more secrets. _

He’ll be better to her. Better than his father was to Nathalie, better than Marinette was to him. He’d tell her, the woman who’s stuck with him through it all, everything.

The Miraculous spellbook. His sleepless nights spent obsessing over Paonne, their own team members. How he  _ really  _ felt.

Because he’d promised to let Marinette--Ladybug--go. Forget her. To do that, he had to open up.

_ Be better. _

Cautiously, Adrien takes Chloé’s hand. She starts, her blue eyes widening as she fully awakens. Her lips even part slightly at the shock--she’s always the one that initiates contact, never the other way around. Her hand is cool, just like his. They’ve always been a bit cold-blooded, had to be. 

Adrien offers her a weak smile and a shrug. The smile wavers on a smirk at the pale blush rising on her cheeks.

“Thanks for last night. Can we talk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chlodrien is just implied. I'm not really looking for a full-blown thing like the Lukanette, so don't worry. I have a habit of skirting around the actual plot thing and getting the main characters to actually interact, but... it'll get better. Probably. More actually-advertised-Adrinette to come next chapters.


	12. are you happy?

Sometimes Luka gets the sense that Marinette’s bored.

It’s a feeling he’s noticed present in their relationship over the years--perhaps not at the very beginning, but maybe a few months into it--lurking underneath, or throughout, like water under a frozen river. Marinette would be laughing in his face, flicking and tugging at his bangs as she shoves him down to bed one night, and by the morning she’d refuse any attempt to get her out of the heavy comforters, her voice flat despite the carefree whining. Or sometimes, she’d ignore his calls and texts for days, only to turn up at his doorstep with a box of fresh pastries, bandaged fingers, and a work or design excuse for her absence. Marinette is like the sea, one moment still and unreadable, and the other a raging storm of emotion.

Luka knows his girlfriend loves him, feels it with every fiber of his being the same way he loves her.

But, sometimes, Marinette would get a faraway look in her eyes during a conversation. There’d be a flicker of confusion, or regret in those ocean eyes, and her smile would falter. Then she’d blink and hide her lips behind a black scarf and teasing words.

She never told him about what happened with Noir. Not even a call, not then, and not tonight. He can still remember her distraught expression… and how she had immediately clammed up with him as Viperion.

Cuddling with her in bed, without even a centimeter separating their bodies, Luka has never felt more far away.

“Hey Mari.”

It’s utterly quiet. The silence stretches on past his question, and Luka thinks she might have fallen asleep already, her expression unchanging and her breathing having evened out. Then, just as he’s about to turn in himself, her soft voice cuts through the haze.

“Yes?”

“Are you--”  _ Bored yet? Done with me?  _ “--happy?” he settles, biting down the other questions.

The young woman stiffens slightly in his embrace--slightly, but pressed up against him like this, it’s hard to miss even her heartbeat. Right now, her heart thuds against his chest a bit faster than a moment ago. When Marinette answers him though, her tone is light.

She even snorts. “What do you mean by that?”

Luka shrugs, carding a hand through her hair. “Not sure myself,” he confesses quietly, knowing that would come as a bit of a surprise. He’s  _ Luka. _ Steadfast, loyal, certain Luka.

“Oh.” Another long pause follows. Luka thinks Marinette may have fallen asleep for real this time when she says, “I... am. As much as I can be, at least, considering we have a magical terrorist running around during a busy week at work. And that’s not even mentioning the restaurant forgot our napkins…”

She laughs. He stifles a puff of air into the top of her head.

“I am,” Marinette repeats, this time with more conviction. “I’ve got everything I could want right here, right now.” A pause. “There’s no reason for me not to be.” Fingers trail up his side soothingly Luka feels not a small amount of relief at her reassurance, embarrassingly enough. He hums in agreement.

“I guess I’ve just been tired this week. Work and all… that’s why I didn’t contact you these past few days. I think I’ve also been worried about Juleka’s celebration.”

Those are familiar words, rearranged just slightly, but their message is all the same. Luka looks at her searchingly, but at this angle, he can only see the top of her nose and the curve of her lips. Her bangs and lashes obscure her eyes.

“You don’t think you’ll make it to the karaoke?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I told Alya probably not about an hour ago.” She pauses, then adds, “But… I think if I really get to it, I can go. I know how much this means for you and your sister.”

Luka rubs circles into her back. “Don’t push yourself too hard. Jule’ll understand.”

“Don’t worry about me. Get some sleep.”

Another laugh, short and sweet. Marinette nuzzles into his chest and closes her eyes, effectively signalling the conversation over. Soon, her breathing evens out completely as she falls into a deep sleep.

But as Luka lies there, the cold, distant feeling persists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'd actually typed up a completely different scene, ready to post... and then my computer decided it was time to move on from this world. The dumbass I am, I was typing it up on Word instead of Google Drive or something, so... yeah... at least I'm back! I'll update again in a couple of hours, haha. Story finally coming back after that long period of tilt. We're skipping straight to the meet-up.
> 
> On another side note, I got a therapist. While this fic may help with getting some of the bad feelings out, it's also forced me to reevaluate my mental state. I figured I needed a Chloe in my life so I opened up a little.
> 
> *rolls away*

**Author's Note:**

> YOOOOOOO WE'RE FINALLY HERE  
> WOW I WONDER WHO THE NEW LADYBUG WILL BE  
> HOPE THIS GOES WELL  
> BUT  
> IT'LL PROBABLY GET WORSE BEFORE IT GETS BETTER
> 
> That said, welcome to the angst train. Fingers crossed we don't crash. (Summary sucks, I know, I'll fix it. Later.)
> 
> I'll be updating fairly frequently, maybe once or twice or four times a week. No set schedule though, sorry.


End file.
